


all my love (is yours)

by skatzaa



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Enthusiastic Consent, F/F, Loyalty, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Politics, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-01-31 14:31:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18593200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatzaa/pseuds/skatzaa
Summary: In the four years that Dormé has been one of Padmé’s handmaidens, they’ve settled on a comfortable system. Beyond all the politics, beyond Dormé’s duties as bodyguard and aide, they are friends.It’s familiar, directing Padmé to take a seat at the vanity before pulling the pins, one by one, from her hair. She could be pulling the very tension from Padmé’s shoulders, with the way she relaxes as the style unravels. There aren’t many knots but Dormé combs through the curls anyway, helping them to relax.She places the brush aside and moves to the hidden seam on the back of Padmé’s dress.





	all my love (is yours)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weakinteraction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weakinteraction/gifts).



> Well! This was an adventure to write. I've never done smut before, but I really wanted to give it a go during this exchange. I make no promises, but I'm pretty pleased with it over all. A big thanks goes to my girlfriend, who betaed this and only laughed at me a little for being awkward about it. The title from All My Love by George Ezra.
> 
> It's not laid out word-for-word in the fic, but this is 100% consensual! Power dynamics can get wonky but I wanted to clarify that they're both going into this with their eyes open.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Dormé follows in Padmé’s wake after the Senate session lets out. It’s impossible, in the throng of beings, to avoid jostling altogether, but the deep purple of Padmé’s gown is easy to follow, and Dormé can at least ensure that no one has an open shot at her mistress’s back.

They move at a quick clip; both are slight enough to slip easily through the crowd unimpeded, and Padmé is bright enough in her rage to warn off anyone who might be considering approaching her, following that nerfshit session.

A queue for the turbolifts halts their progress. Dormé ends up pressed close to Padmé, her fingers steady on her back so that Padmé knows it isn’t a stranger’s touch.

“M’Lady,” Dormé says, voice pitched low amid the din of voices, so as not to be overheard. “Would you like me to call ahead for the hover?”

“No.” Padmé’s voice is as taut as her shoulders. Her hairstyle today is particularly intricate, her gown overly ornate—Dormé knows they weigh heavily on her, reminders of the failed vote. The committee worked tirelessly for months to prepare the legislation, and no one worked harder than Padmé. Her speech today was meant to sway the majority, but it hadn’t been enough.

The turbolifts doors slide open. Other Senators and aides push past the two of them in order to fit in the lift. They are obstructing the flow of traffic, but Padmé does not move in the face of the tide, so Dormé remains behind her, the rock that diverts the river.

They hold those positions long after the lift doors close again. Dormé presses her palm flat against Padmé’s spine though it’s a weakness, because she knows Padmé needs it right now, and asks, “What would you have of me, M’Lady?”

Padmé’s shoulders inch higher and stay there. She’s so tense Dormé almost expects her to snap. And then they drop, like her strings have been cut.

“I think some fresh air would do me good,” Padmé says, still resolutely facing forward, her chin tilted up. If she’s speaking in code, she must be worried those firmly against her proposition today will look to cause her harm in the vote’s aftermath.

Dormé’s free hand disappears into her sleeve as the lift doors open again. She follows a step behind Padmé and clicks the communicator sewn into the cuff of her dress on and off—three times for the hovercraft, pause, twice more for heightened security. Back in Padmé’s apartment, Cordé will pass the message on to the necessary staff.

They should return to Padmé’s office; the Queen will expect a report, and Padmé’s allies will require reassurances. But instead, Dormé guards Padmé’s back as they ride the turbolifts all the way to the landing platforms. Many others are doing the same, thought out of satisfaction or annoyance at the day’s outcome is hard to tell.

The lift doors slide open soundlessly, letting in a blast of hot Coruscanti air. Dormé doesn’t allow her distaste to show on her face, but there is very little she dislikes more than the heavy scent of metal and pollution that seems to penetrate everything on the planet, even on the upper levels.

She sticks close to Padmé, protecting her still. Over the top of Padmé’s head, Dormé sees the Naboo delegation’s official hover pull up to a loading dock as they cross the square. Captain Typho stands from her seat, hand braced on the top of the transparisteel windshield for balance.

In the last few meters, Dormé lengthens her stride, moving to the right and overtaking Padmé. When they reach the vehicle, Dormé holds out her hand and says, “M’Lady.”

Padmé’s thousand-meter-stare breaks, looking over and up to meet Dormé’s eyes. She gives a thin smile and nods in thanks. Her palm is clammy with sweat, then gone again as Padmé settles into her seat behind the driver.

Typho gives Dormé a slight nod before she boards the craft. She’s too tall to be mistaken for Padmé up close, her face too broad and bearing not commanding enough. She’ll never act as a double. But from a distance, with the modified seats of the hovercraft making them the same height, with their dark hair pulled back into similar styles, the similarities are enough. Every added layer of protection is important.

The ride to the senatorial apartment complex is short, the rushing chaos of Coruscanti traffic the only sounds. Dormé folds her hands in her lap, stares at the back of Typho’s head. She can see Padmé in her peripheral vision, her fingers worrying over the beading of her dress’s sash. She bites her lip, eyebrows furrowed, but her chin remains stubbornly set.

Cordé is waiting on the penthouse balcony, a pale gray pillar among the lush greenery cultivated by the Embassy. She remains motionless as they disembark the hovercraft, Padmé pausing just long enough to thank Cartho, the pilot.

When they approach the building, Typho leads and Dormé trails behind, with Padmé sandwiched in the middle. It’s one of the few concessions they’ve gotten her to make about her safety: never first, never last. Typho steps off to the side before they reach Cordé, pivoting smartly on his heel and snapping a quick salute to Padmé, taking his hat off and tucking it below his arm when Padmé nods.

Cordé says, “Queen Jamillia wishes to speak with you, My Lady.”

Padmé sweeps past her without a word. The tension is back in her shoulders, her spine made of solid durasteel.

The garden muffles the sounds of the city, but Dormé can still hear the whirr of the speeder disappearing into traffic. She exchanges a glance with Cordé and Cordé dips her chin. She and Versé will clear the rest of Padmé’s schedule for the day and ensure no visitors are admitted to the apartment.

Then Dormé steps through the door.

She finds Padmé paused before the door to her office, where she takes business when it inevitably follows her home. Padmé’s hand is over the access panel, her head bowed but back straight. Dormé waits, her hands twisted together before her. It’s not her place to speak out right now, but when Padmé straightens and glances out of the corner of her eye over her shoulder, Dormé gives her a small smile.

The door slides open and Padmé is gone, her posture immaculate as always. Dormé steps through the threshold a moment later, offset to Padmé’s right.

“Your Majesty,” Padmé says, curtseying at the viewscreen that raises from the edge of her desk. Dormé dips in a deeper curtsey.

Queen Jamillia is visible on the viewscreen, seated on her throne in the Theed Palace. Her headdress catches the light, turning the fabric orange; it must be just past sunrise there. Some of the queen’s retinue are visible—Dormé recognizes Dejallia from her class at the academy, as well as Nallia, who grew up on the same block as Dormé, though she’s a few years younger.

“Senator Amidala,” Jamillia says, her queen’s voice edged with something sharp. “We received word the reform proposal failed.”

Padmé doesn’t move, but something about her presence seems to draw inward on itself. Dormé can’t see her face, but she imagines her expression is as much a mask as any ceremonial makeup.

“Yes.” Her voice is back to being clipped, though no one could reasonably accuse her of being rude to the queen. “The committee believed it was ready for presentation to the Senate, but there are many who will fight change, no matter the outcome.”

Queen Jamillia stays silent. Her eyes dart to the right; perhaps looking at one of her advisors standing off screen. Then she says, “We in Theed were led to believe that the bill would pass, if with slight revisions. It is disheartening to hear that is not the case.”

“I understand, Your Majesty. After all our work, the committee was equally disappointed.” Padmé doesn’t pace, though Dormé knows she must want to. It’s never easy to receive criticism, especially for something not readily fixed. It chafes at them both. “If we revisit some of the points, it could be ready for–”

“Perhaps you do not fully grasp the situation in the Mid Rim after your time in the Core, Senator,” Jamillia says, cutting her off. Padmé bristles but stays quiet. “There is unrest across the quadrant, not helped by the rumors that are spreading about Count Dooku. Karlinus hosted him recently. The sector cannot afford to appear weak at such a time.”

Dormé visited Karlinus once, soon after Padmé took office. She remembers the way the humidity clung to her skin and made her handmaiden dress unbearable, but also the way the Alderaani moss hung from the great, towering trees, the way even the smallest of clearings were covered in wildflowers. She’s also seen holos of Count Dooku from his time as a Jedi, dressed all in black and unapproachable in his austerity; she can’t imagine him comfortable in one of the small Karlini towns.

“My Queen, we are very aware of that here on Coruscant.” Padmé pauses to gather herself and her thoughts.

Dormé withdraws her hand into the sleeve of her gown and turns the comm on for six seconds, then switches it back off.

Jamillia doesn’t allow her a chance to continue. “We place our trust in the Senate, but perhaps they are not the correct tool for this. Is it possible to have the Jedi investigate Dooku and his movements?”

Padmé is already shaking her head. She says, “Chancellor Palpatine says the Jedi aren’t to be used for personal gains.”

Jamillia’s mouth pulls down into a frown. Dejallia leans forward and murmurs something, too low for the comm to pick up. The queen tilts her head toward her.

Behind Dormé, the door opens with a nearly inaudible swish.

“My Queen. M’Lady,” Versé greets. There’s a rustle of fabric as she bows. “I apologize for the intrusion, but Senator Organa is here. He wishes to speak with Senator Amidala about today’s vote.”

There is a silent exchange between Padmé and Jamillia, then the queen nods. Farewells are given, and the queen extracts a promise from Padmé to speak on the subject further in the future. Then the call ends, the viewscreen sliding back into its resting place. Padmé stands, silhouetted against the gray Coruscant skyline.

“Senator Organa is not actually here, M’Lady,” Versé says, still in the doorway. “Cordé and I will be in our suite if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Versé,” Padmé says, voice faint.

The door closes. Dormé keeps her hands loose by her sides until Padmé turns around. There’s surprise on her face, and her fingers go back to the beaded sash without conscious thought.

“Dormé,” she says. “I thought you had left as well.”

“No, M’Lady.” Dormé steps forward and brings her left hand up to rest on Padmé’s shoulder. She reassesses. “Padmé. Let me help.”

Padmé’s eyes flick up and then away. “If you’re sure.”

Dormé keeps her hand on Padmé’s shoulder as she leads her through the apartment to the master bedroom.

In the four years that Dormé has been one of Padmé’s handmaidens, they’ve settled on a comfortable system. Beyond all the politics, beyond Dormé’s duties as bodyguard and aide, they are friends. Dormé cares for Padmé greatly, and she knows that Padmé feels the same about all three of them, but Dormé has been with her the longest.

It’s familiar, directing Padmé to take a seat at the vanity before pulling the pins, one by one, from her hair. She could be pulling the very tension from Padmé’s shoulders, with the way she relaxes as the style unravels. There aren’t many knots but Dormé combs through the curls anyway, helping them to relax.

She places the brush aside and moves to the hidden seam on the back of Padmé’s dress. The senator’s wardrobe is generally Versé’s domain, but each of them is proficient in all aspects of serving Padmé. Dormé keeps a steady rhythm as she undoes each of the tiny buttons, revealing the slim undersuit Padmé wears under all of her gowns.

When the buttons are undone, she touches her fingertips to Padmé’s elbow so she rises, the dress sliding down over her shoulders. Dormé catches it before it can crumple to the ground, holds it low until Padmé steps out of it. The gown gets deposited on one of the benches, then Dormé turns her attention to the undersuit, sliding the zipper down so Padmé can pull the shirt over her head. She does so without any fuss, then pushes the leggings down to her feet, kicks them away, and then turns around.

It doesn’t matter how often she sees Padmé like this, bare and vulnerable before her, the sight still makes Dormé’s breath catch in her throat. Even when she’s only wearing a breast band and underwear, Padmé’s posture is that of a queen’s.

Dormé waits for Padmé to make the first move, and she isn’t left waiting long today. Padmé steps right into her space, hands coming up to rest on the curve of her hips. They stay like that for a long moment—Padmé mostly naked, Dormé still in her Senate gown—then Padmé pushes up onto her toes and presses her mouth to Dormé’s.

Dormé closes her eyes and leans into the kiss. It’s gentle at first, just the smooth motion of their lips moving together. Dormé brings one hand up to cup Padmé’s jaw and cheek, tilting their faces slightly to get a better angle. That’s all the invitation Padmé needs.

The kiss catches fire, Padmé nipping at her lower lip and then sucking it into her mouth to soothe the tiny spark of pain. The heat of it spreads through Dormé’s body, pooling low in her belly. She allows Padmé to walk her backward, hands still on her hips, until her back presses up against the wall. Dormé breaks away and tilts her head the other direction before leaning in again.

Padmé presses more fully against her, the curves of her body fitting neatly to Dormé’s, one hand snaking up to tangle in her hair, still in its formal style. The sharp tug when her fingers catch on a pin has Dormé leaning back, an involuntary sound escaping her. Padmé sucks on her exposed neck, scrapes her teeth on the sensitive skin, and Dormé makes another sound.

“Bed?” Dormé pants out, eyes close and face turned toward the ceiling.  Padmé pulls away from her, already moving toward the vast expanse of the bed. Dormé follows, pausing at the edge of the mattress only long enough to pull off her dress; this one, she leaves crumpled on the floor. Then Padmé is reaching out again, her fingers warm against Dormé’s skin, and they’re falling onto the bed together.

Inches apart on the mattress, Dormé takes the sight of Padmé in, tracing her eyes over the spill of brown hair against silver sheets, the roundness of Padmé’s shoulder, the gentle curve of her hip. As she watches, Padmé reaches back and undoes her breast band, revealing full breasts, nipples already somewhat hard.

Dormé reaches out, pulling Padmé in and rolling onto her back in the same motion so that Padmé ends up above her, hair trailing down on either side, a curtain between them and the galaxy. She shifts so that she’s straddling Dormé’s hips, leans down to kiss Dormé again. It ignites every nerve in Dormé’s body and she arches up into it.

Padmé breaks the kiss and gasps, grinding her hips down against Dormé’s pelvis. Her eyes close as she moves, face hovering close enough to Dormé’s that she can feel every puff of breath against her skin. She moves her hips in time with Padmé’s as best she can, providing more friction, hands clutching Padmé’s thighs. She strains upward and Padmé rewards her with a fleeting kiss, and then another and another, each barely lasting more than a heartbeat.

This position doesn’t do anything for her physically, but the sight of Padmé above her, the feeling of her moving against Dormé, sends an aching, throbbing _want_ through her.

She slides one hand up Padmé’s thigh, rotating her wrist until she can get her thumb on Padmé’s clit. She brushes the pad of her finger over it, pausing when Padmé lets out a surprised huff. She asks, “This is okay?”

“Yes,” Padmé breathes, nodding several times to get her point across. She gives Dormé one more searing kiss before sitting up, allowing Dormé more room to maneuver. She takes full advantage of this, pressing her thumb more firmly against Padmé’s clit and moving it in small circles. Padmé’s whole body reacts—thighs tightening, back arching, mouth dropping open as Dormé increases the pressure.

Her own hips are still moving ineffectively, looking for friction that isn’t there, as she watches Padmé. Dormé loves these moments, loves that Padmé trusts her enough to let down her guard like this. It’s humbling, even after years of this and more.

Padmé rolls off Dormé so that she’s lying on her back and pushes down her underwear, throwing them off to the side once she’s free. Tilting her head towards Dormé, Padmé asks, “Finger me?”

It’s not her Amidala voice, or her Senator voice, not a command or demand. It’s just Padmé.

Dormé shifts onto her side, propping herself up on one arm so she can look down at Padmé as she skates her fingers down Padmé’s stomach, up over her thighs, down around the line of her pubic hair, trimmed short because it annoys Padmé otherwise. She avoids moving further down, teasing with gentle touches until Padmé’s hips are straining and she says, “Dormé, _please_.”

Dormé smiles and leans down to kiss her, feeling an echoing smile on Padmé’s lips before it disappears into the kiss. She ghosts her fingers over the top of the short hair until Padmé breaks the kiss to complain, then she dips her fingers down between the folds of her outer lips and strokes _up_ through the slick wetness.

Padmé breaks off with a gasp, head thrown back into the pillows as Dormé circles her fingers up and around, rubbing tighter and tighter circles as Padmé moans into her mouth, little high-pitched, breathy things that have Dormé pressing her thighs together, desperate for some friction.

“Finger me,” Padmé says, and this is more of a command than before, but Dormé can forgive it. She complies, pressing one finger into her, curling it upward as she moves it in and out. She kisses her, then ducks to nip her ear just as she twists her wrist and presses her thumb to Padmé’s clit again, finally using the harder pressure that she knows Padmé prefers.

Padmé moans, breath hitching as her hips shudder. Dormé keeps at it, steadily increasing the pressure and speed of her hand, adding another finger after Padmé nods when she asks, until Padmé is clutching at her arm, moaning and shuddering her way through her orgasm. Her hips twitch as Dormé continues to circle her fingers, just hard enough to draw out the aftershocks but not hard enough to hurt.

“Okay,” Padmé says, voice raspy. Dormé pulls her hand away and wipes it as discretely as she can on the edge of the sheet. They curl toward one another, Dormé waiting for Padmé to ride out the last of her orgasm. When she finally opens her eyes, she looks sleepy and sated, the last of the frustration from earlier finally drained away.

Dormé strokes her fingers down the length of Padmé’s arm, then over her hip and along her thigh. She waits for Padmé to speak first.

Instead, Padmé stretches out and kisses her, soft and sweet. She asks, “What would you like?”

Dormé is still wet, but she’s not really _aroused_ anymore. She could definitely be in the mood with only a few minutes work, but she just pushes closer to Padmé and snuggles deeper into the pillow.

“I’m fine,” she says. Padmé isn’t in the habit of disbelieving her handmaidens—outside of this apartment it could cost her her life—but she still raises an eyebrow at that. Dormé continues, “Really. This was for you, and I’m satisfied with just that, Padmé.”

Padmé still doesn’t look convinced, so Dormé runs her hand up the length of her spine and watches the way she melts. She adds, “Next time, it can be about me.”

Padmé’s eyes flash open and she smirks, accepting the challenge for what it is. Satisfied with that, she shifts onto her other side so Dormé can curl up behind her, their bodies pressed as close as they can get. Dormé wraps her arm around to Padmé’s front and links their fingers. Then she closes her eyes, wriggling until she finds a position where she won’t have Padmé’s hair up her nose.

They’ll have to get up soon and begin working toward another solution for the Count Dooku problem. There are allies to reassure and rivals to ward off. The queen will want another report and Dormé just knows the Chancellor will be sniffing around the Embassy before they’re ready to deal with him.

But for now, she lets her shoulders relax and drifts to the feeling of Padmé’s heartbeat, strong and steady against her own.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I definitely think I have the Padmé/Dormé bug now, so it's quite possible that I'll return to them in the future. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated but never required.


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